


No Man Is An Archipelago

by Banach_Tarski



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Angst, Fake AH Crew, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, So much comfort, Touch-Starved, but just a regular bad cold, gta v - Freeform, mild flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banach_Tarski/pseuds/Banach_Tarski
Summary: Ryan prides himself on being a pretty self-sufficient guy. He can rob his own banks and stitch up his own bullet holes, thank you very much. Ryan scoffs at the phrase “No man is an island” because he’s, like, a whole system of islands. An archipelago.One day he hopes the other Fakes will figure that out.(This work will no longer be updated for obvious reasons.)
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley & Gavin Free & Ryan Haywood & Michael Jones & Jack Pattillo & Geoff Ramsey
Comments: 51
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

You don’t get to be someone like the Vagabond without becoming a jack of all trades. Ryan is an accomplished criminal with a long list of skills- proficiency in almost every weapon known to man, a master behind a wheel, and a knack for scaring the shit out of everyone he meets. He can fly small aircraft, pick a lock, and throw a Molotov at a cop while jumping over their car on a motorbike.

Something fewer people know is that he’s also just as talented behind a computer screen. So many new pathways open up if one can hack into a database or find someone who doesn’t want to be found. It’s something of a point of pride for Ryan that he never needed his own tech guy. He was no Gavin Free, but really only one person could be. Still, it was enough to get by and his skills have proven useful.

A one man army, Ryan feels comfortable calling himself. If there is someone you need dead or robbed, Ryan is your guy.

But right now, none of those skills are helping him. Ryan stands on the deck of Geoff’s fancy yacht in the most uncomfortable tailored suit he’s ever worn. He clutches a drink in front of him as if that will protect him from the fake laughter coming from the woman opposite him, huge fake pearls dangling from her ears and a deep pink flush on her cheeks. She’s drunk, just like most of the guests on the yacht.

Geoff’s hosting a big social event and a couple of dozen big names in the city have attended. Most of them are happy to schmooze but a few of them might have connections to an up and coming crew Geoff is interested in taking down. Ryan’s job, like the other Fakes, is to smile politely and see what he can find out.

The drink in his hands is a non-alcoholic white wine. He takes a sip. It tastes terrible.

“You know,” The woman says, “I was up in Palomino Bay last winter and there were a couple of days when it snowed. And they say the globe is warming!”

Ryan forces something akin to a smile to cross his face and gives a polite chuckle.

God.

The sooner this is over, the better. Isn’t there a building he can break into and get the information from instead? Or a purse he can steal. Underling to threaten. Come on, the possibilities are almost endless.

Ryan hopes none of his twitchiness is apparent on his face and casts a glance towards the bar. Michael and Jeremy are manning it, pouring drinks and tossing cocktail shakers like they’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe they have, and that’s why Geoff instructed them to bartend instead of stalking the deck like Ryan has to.

Ryan makes a mental note to pick up the craft sometime in the future. If Geoff decides to host another one of these parties again, Ryan wants to be prepared. Or he could be a waiter? That’s what Jack is doing. Amazing what you can hear just walking past a group of people. But Jack is also a beautiful redheaded woman and well, Ryan isn’t.

There are two other men standing around in the circle and they both agree with the pearl-covered woman. Ryan can’t remember any of their names. He can’t even remember what name _he_ gave them, and he desperately hopes that doesn’t become a problem.

“I hope they bring out more _hors d'oeuvres_ soon,” The taller man says. “Lunch is simply too far away.”

Is that how you’re meant to pronounce _hors d'oeuvres_? There is nothing Ryan wants more than to slip away and look it up on his phone, and maybe just stay slipped away. But one of the men earlier hinted at being involved in some drug smuggling and Ryan needs to see where it goes. Perhaps he can steer the conversation back that way once they’re done complaining about lunch.

Ryan forces another sip of the awful fake wine past his lips.

It is then that Gavin saddles on up next to Ryan with a great big smile plastered across his face.

“I hear the chefs are almost ready to serve,” Gavin says. “But what, I’m not sure. I’ll ask the waitress.”

Gavin pulls on Ryan’s sleeve. “Come with?”

Ryan could have kissed him. “Yeah, sure.”

Once they have lost themselves in the crowd Ryan slumps down and tugs at the knot of his tie. A small sigh escapes him and Gavin raises an eyebrow at him.

“Sure are a lot of bright personalities on this boat tonight,” Ryan tells Gavin in a low voice.

“You looked like you were about to stab something.”

“Someone.”

“I wouldn’t have put it past you to stab your glass, the way you looked drinking from it.”

Ryan snorts.

Jack materialises from the crowd and Gavin plucks the offending glass from Ryan’s hand and puts it on her tray.

“That bad?” Jack asks.

Ryan fights the urge to grimace. “Wasn’t the worst I’ve had.”

A rude guest clicks his fingers and Jack rolls her eyes. Gavin taps Ryan’s shoulder and motions him towards the bar.

“You don’t have to go back to those knobheads,” Gavin mutters as they walk. “I bet if we head on up to Geoff’s wardrobe we could find you a nice bowtie and everyone will think you’re a waiter.”

“No, I think I was on to something,” Ryan murmurs back. He can do his job, thanks. It sucks, but so do long stakeouts. And he doesn’t complain about them. Well, not to the Fakes. If the stakeout ends in an assassination Ryan won’t waste his chance with a literal captive audience.

“Just-” Ryan starts and he cuts himself off. Gavin’s curious look makes him continue.

“Do you remember what my name is?”

Gavin smirks.

“Brian was Geoff’s suggested name for you. Close enough to yours so if you forget it won’t matter.”

“Right, right.” Ryan remembers now. The name was given to him offhandedly after a long speech from Geoff about why it was vital nobody was killed at this party. Ryan remembers the first part much more vividly than the second part.

Gavin chews on his bottom lip, eyeing Ryan. Ryan tries his best not to look too miserable.

“Ryan, I can make an excuse for you to-”

“No, no.” Ryan says firmly. “Besides, I think I was getting somewhere, remember?”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I got this.” It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable it makes Ryan, this is his assignment. He doesn’t need Gavin leaping in to save him every time a conversation gets uncomfortable. No matter how much Ryan might _want_ him to, that’s not important. Ryan needs information for Geoff. That’s what’s important.

Ryan leans against the bar and Jeremy drifts over to take his order.

“How’re you doin, pal?” Jeremy drawls. He’s really laying it on thick for this bartending job.

“Just fine.”

Jeremy flicks his hand towards a little chalkboard with the specials written on it.

“Anything catch your eye?”

Ryan narrows his eyes at him.

Jeremy smiles back, playful, and then it’s like a light bulb goes off in his head and he explodes into action.

“You know what,” Jeremy says with his arms full of glasses and ingredients, “I think I have just the thing for ya.”

Jeremy pours some liquid that smells lemony over some ice, adds a dash of grenadine, and dumps some ginger ale into a glass. He drops a slice of lemon and a cherry into the concoction and pushes it towards Ryan’s hands.

“A Millionaire Sour,” Jeremy explains, “nothing alcoholic in it. You can tell people it’s a whiskey sour.”

Ryan wraps a hand around the drink and sips on it. The drink tastes vaguely like pomegranate but mostly like ginger ale, which he likes.

It’s a very thoughtful gesture.

Ryan inclines his head in thanks and turns back to the group of idiots he abandoned.

The two men have commandeered some couches nearby and are engaged in a heated discussion. The woman appears to have disappeared- but Ryan would place his bets on her gravitating towards the bar.

The two men cut off as Ryan approaches and Ryan feels distinctly uncomfortable. Should he leave? Or was that too late to do now? What if they were talking about _him_ -

“Brian, welcome back,” The shorter man intones, and gestures for Ryan to sit on the opposite couch. “But you didn’t get me a drink, for shame.”

“Uh-”

“Ignore him.” The taller man instructs. He’s leaning forwards in his seat. “Brian, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking around the deck.”

Ryan sits bolt upright. “Um-”

“Looking at the exits, looking at the staff. You’re not really an IT consultant, are you?”

“I-”

“Ex-military? Private practice? Or something else? You know what, doesn’t matter. You have skills. You seem to like us well enough. My associate and I would like to offer you a job.”

Ryan forces himself to relax his grip on his glass lest he shatters it. He can feel his heart thundering away in his chest. “Doing what?”

“Odds and ends. Cleaning up messes, that sort of thing. Maybe acting as a bodyguard sometimes.”

The taller man leans in close. “Whatever you do for Ramsey or one of his allies, we can pay you more.”

Ryan would laugh if he wasn’t sweating bullets. He wonders what they’d do if they found out they were propositioning the Vagabond and not some goon. But it puts him in an awkward situation.

These guys are definitely who Geoff was looking for. Should he take them up on their offer to get more information out of them? Or should he politely turn them down and pass all this on to Geoff?

Both men look pretty drunk. Could he even turn them down without starting an altercation?

“I, um, well…” Ryan flounders. “I really am in IT!”

“Come on, no one’s buying that.” The shorter man slides onto Ryan’s couch and saddles up real close. “You stick out of this hoity-toity party like a sore thumb. But maybe you’ve been talking with us for… another reason.”

The shorter man looks at Ryan through lidded eyes.

Ryan freezes.

Now what should he do? If he turns this guy down he might cause a scene, and Ryan has explicit instructions to avoid doing so. But then how far is Ryan going to take it?

Gavin plops down on Ryan’s other side and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

“Trust me, you don’t want Brian.” Gavin plucks Ryan’s drink out of his hand and throws it back with aplomb. “He’s hopeless out in the field. I once saw him get tazed by an eighty year old security guard outside an art gallery. _Twice_.”

The shorter man guffaws and shuffles a polite distance away. Ryan takes a deep breath and releases it.

The taller man holds out his hand for Gavin to shake. “Victor.”

“David,” Gavin replies. “Brian’s my… associate. And believe me we only let him do IT work anymore.”

Gavin flashes a cocky grin at Victor and he quirks his lips in return.

By the time the woman returns, her hands full of drinks, Gavin gets the two men to spill the beans on their crew, their operations, and who else at the party is involved.

Gavin is positively magnetic, drawing every eye on that little group of couches and leading them wherever he wants. Ryan leans back to enjoy the show and it feels like a physical weight has dropped away from him. All he has to do now is smile and laugh at the appropriate points.

“I can’t believe you actually do IT work,” Victor says. “And you’ve worked with Ramsey’s Golden Boy?”

“Once,” Gavin replies. “Brian’s done it a few times, haven’t you? What’s working with the Golden boy like?”

Ryan shakes his head a little. Unbelievable.

“At first I thought he was the most annoying person on the planet,” Ryan shoots Gavin a simpering smile. And he’s actually enjoying himself, Ryan is surprised to think. “But he grows on you, I suppose. And he’s very, very good at what he does.”

Gavin all but preens at the praise.

Ryan lifts his empty glass to his lips to try and hide a new smile. “Terrible body odour, though. And he sweats nonstop.”

Gavin’s mouth opens half in shock, half in laughter.

When the group breaks up for lunch, Gavin sticks close to Ryan’s side.

“You doing alright?”

“Better, now.” Ryan begrudgingly admits. Not that he’d ever say so, but he’s incredibly grateful. His pride stings a bit too, but it’s a minor detail. They have the information they came for, which is the main thing.

“Hey,” Gavin says, stopping them both on the deck. There are still a few people wandering around but most have gone inside to the dining room. No one close enough to hear them talk candidly, at least. “I have a much easier time doing this if I have someone with me. Would you like to help me out for the rest of the night?”

It’s such an obvious ploy, so obvious even Ryan can see it, but he appreciates it nevertheless.

“I suppose so.”

It’s not a thank you and Gavin should know he’s not going to get one, but Ryan resolves to say it some other way. Once they’re off this boat Ryan can offer to drive Gavin home, and maybe hit a cyclist or two on the way. Gavin would enjoy that.


	2. Chapter 2

As a rule, Ryan doesn’t get sick. Not in the way Gavin doesn’t get sick, by steadfast refusing to believe he is and hoping his body falls for the ruse. Or the way Matt doesn’t, which seems to defy the laws of nature based on his lifestyle. Ryan assumes he just gets lucky or that he ate enough dirt as a child to build a good immune system, though he supposes it’s really a combination of both.

The time everyone got food poisoning because Geoff and Jack tried to make sushi is an outlier.

About once a year he’ll get a cold, and if he stays at home it will be gone in a few days. When he has to work it can take over a week to clear up but it’s never serious enough to stop him.

Ryan is the Vagabond. If grievous bodily harm won’t stop him from finishing a heist or a hit, does a cold stand a chance? Ryan’s developed a strong tolerance for pain in the many years he’s committed crime. As long as he can physically drag himself to work, he will.

When the time for his cold approaches this year, Ryan isn’t even the first one to notice he’s coming down with something.

“You look pale,” Jeremy comments after they finish intimidating some low level gang members.

“Thanks.” Ryan opens the driver’s side door but Jeremy taps his arm.

“But like, really pale. You feeling alright? Do you want me to drive?”

“I feel fine. I’m not going to pass out behind the wheel or anything.”

But his legs are a little shaky once they’re off and away and it’s a fight to keep his breaking smooth.

It doesn’t matter. Ryan’s a little lightheaded, riding the high of a successful mission. That’s all.

The next person to notice is Jack. Ryan’s sitting cross legged on an armchair in Geoff’s lounge room, typing away as fast as he can on a laptop resting on his legs. Jack drops a box of tissues on the armrest and a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table.

Ryan quickly sits like a normal person and narrows his eyes at her. Jack narrows her eyes right back. It’s a standoff.

“What’s this for?” Ryan breaks first. He usually does.

“You’ve been sniffling all day. Tea’s for you too.”

Ryan gives the tea a long look. “I’m fine, really.”

Jack rolls her eyes. “Drink the tea, okay? It’ll clear out your sinuses. And don’t tell me you don’t drink it because I saw you drink this exact blend last week.”

“I know how tea works, Jack. I just don’t need it. I’ll be back to normal in a couple of days.”

Jack pinches the bridge of her nose. “And you haven’t considered, perhaps, taking some time off until you’re well?”

Ryan scoffs. “I can still _work_ , Jack.”

Jack shakes her head. “Do you remember that time we got ambushed at the pier? And you got shot in the leg? Remember that?”

Ryan’s leg twinges. “Funnily yes, I do remember that.”

“Do you remember how you literally dragged yourself to the rendezvous point on the beach because you were too stubborn to accept Michael’s help there?”

Ryan wiggles his hand in the air. “That part’s a little hazy.”

“This is the same thing.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing,” Ryan argues. “I haven’t been shot.”

“Don’t play dumb, Ryan. It’s not a good look on you. And since you won’t go home…” Jack picks up the tea and thrusts it into Ryan’s hands. If he doesn’t take it he might spill it everywhere and ruin his laptop, so he accepts it.

“Whoops, Ryan,” Jack deadpans, “I accidentally made too much tea. Could you help me out by drinking it?”

“Um…”

Jack shakes her head again before walking out of the lounge room.

When he’s sure she’s gone, Ryan sniffs the tea and then takes a sip.

The last person to notice is Michael. They’re sequestered away in a spare room in Geoff’s apartment, on the trail of a higher-up in that new gang Geoff wants gone. This stage of the proceedings involves hours and hours of looking through surveillance footage and black and white photos that Gavin procures for them.

“You look like a fucking ghost,” Michael tells him, and Ryan waves him away.

“Christ, not you too.” Ryan mutters, and then says louder: “Will you let me work?”

Michael shrugs. “You can’t be having a good time doing it, is all.”

Ryan squints closer at the paper he’s holding. “This is important.”

“It is,” Michael agrees. “It is.”

They manage to work silently together for a few minutes before Ryan feels the cool touch of Michael’s hand on his forehead.

“Shit, dude,” Michael says, “you’re burning up.”

“Hey, hey!” Ryan pushes the hand away from him. “I don’t need you mothering me.”

Michael snorts. “Someone’s gotta.”

“No,” Ryan drops the paper on the table. “No one’s gotta. I can look after myself.”

“You’ve been squinting at that surveillance print out for like, fifteen minutes Ryan. I dunno what else you think you’re gonna glean from it.”

Ryan picks the paper back up and hunkers down in his chair with the paper pressed close to his face. “I can still work.”

“Oh I bet you can,” Michael says, “I bet you can work on this from dawn to dusk and sneeze your way through it without complaining once.”

Silence reigns for another couple of seconds.

“Doesn’t mean you _should_ , though.” Michael continues, and Ryan lets the paper fall again.

“Is there a point you’re trying to get to, Michael?” Ryan says, voiced laced with ice.

If Michael notices, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes, actually.” Michael puts one finger on the paper Ryan discarded and drags it closer to himself. “Let me drive you home, Ryan. Get some rest.”

If Ryan were, well, less ill, he would have fought him for the paper back. If it were Gavin or Jeremy arguing with him Ryan would have treated the situation very differently, but he knows Michael has a soft streak a mile wide. A real mother hen instinct. Ryan’s seen it time and time again whenever all six of them gather in Geoff’s apartment, the way Michael will _tisk-tisk_ at Gavin for leaving his shit everywhere or at Geoff even for leaving all the lights on late at night while he works. It’s Michael who will bring them coffee in the early hours of the morning and make sure they haven’t skipped too many meals and bring a spare jacket or blanket on stake-outs, just in case.

Michael, who carried Jack up from the garage to the penthouse when she had that bike accident last year. Michael, the only one who can consistently get Gavin to go to sleep after working for three days straight. Michael, who once argued with Geoff until they were both hoarse over a heist that was too risky even for the Fakes and Geoff had eventually conceded to.

Michael, whose quiet and caring actions will always speak louder than his aggressive words.

But Ryan is every bit the stubborn bastard and he can still _work_ for God’s sake. Gavin is relying on them.

“If my sneezing is bothering you,” Ryan drones, “you can do this in another room. Or I can cut both your ears off.” Ryan pulls another print out from the stack and squints at it. His eyes are watering.

Michael sighs, and the scratching of his chair on the floor is the only warning Ryan gets before the paper is suddenly gone from his hand and the stack is moved out of his reach.

Ryan would go for it, if the thought of moving didn’t make his bones ache.

“This is the pier all over again.” Michael retorts, but his expression softens. “Look, you’re obviously miserable. Looking at you makes me miserable. For my sake, can I _please_ take you home? This will all still be here once you’re better.”

Ryan bites his bottom lip. He is still every bit the stubborn bastard but it’s rare to hear Michael plead like he has been. And while Ryan would love to keep arguing or maybe steal Michael’s documents in retaliation… he’s tired. So tired that if he lays his head down on the table he’s liable to fall asleep right then and there.

Maybe Michael has a point.

“You know what? Fine, fine. I’ll go home.” Ryan grits his teeth and gets to his feet. It is harder than he thinks it should be. “But I can get there myself.”

Michael visibly relaxes. “Thank God. Are you sure you’re right to drive? I can at least come with you and make sure you get home safe.”

But Ryan is at the limits of the amount of help he will accept and it takes most of his remaining concentration to avoid snarling at him. Michael must see the look in his eyes though, and gestures with his hands like he’s showing off a particularly bad hand of cards and concedes.

Ryan drives himself home.

It’s a good thing Ryan’s an excellent driver and knows the roads like the back of his hand, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have made it. But he does, and he did, and he makes it through the front door before passing out dead asleep on his couch.

He awakens the next morning to a soft rapping on his front door.

Ryan blearily opens his front door and unsurprisingly notes it’s Michael out there waiting for him, a bag in his waiting arms.

“You feelin’ any better today?” Michael pushes past him, his eyes darting around to capture the most of this rare venture into Ryan’s apartment.

Perhaps Ryan in the past has played up his mystic but he’s sure it’s the same as most apartments. His kitchen opens up into a dining room which opens up again into a living area. He hasn’t cleaned up in a while but it’s not a pigsty.

It’s also covered in plants and they’re all looking very much like Ryan does- tired and droopy.

Ryan is not feeling any better today.

“Oh, yeah, much better,” Ryan lies. He puts a hand against his counter and leans against it like he’s definitely not using it for support.

Michael drops the bag on the kitchen counter next to Ryan and swears.

“What the fuck is that, Ryan?”

Ah, Michael is looking at the knife wall. It’s an impressive collection of knives and swords hanging next to the dining room table. Ryan’s always imagined himself sitting in front of it and intimidating his guests on the other side of the table but he’s never had much of a social life.

“My knife wall,” Ryan explains. “Did you come here for a reason or…?”

“Right, I uh, brought some supplies over for you. Meds, tissues, that sort of thing.”

“You didn’t have to.” Ryan says with as much force as he can imbue. It’s not much, but Ryan will take what he can get. If he can convince Michael he’s doing fine maybe Michael will clear out sooner and leave Ryan to his misery.

“I know.” Michael replies. He takes a sudden interest in the texture of the kitchen countertop. “But I spent all of last night up and worried about you. You didn’t reply to any of my texts. What if you didn’t have the right medical shit at home? Or you got worse in the night?”

Oh, right, his phone. Ryan pulls it out of his pocket and it’s completely dead.

Michael spins away from the counter and assaults Ryan’s kitchen cabinets. “Wow, there’s no food in here. Did you eat last night?”

“Well, I”-

“And yet your kitchen’s a mess.” Michael’s eyes scan over the entire room and he seems to come to a decision. “Here, sit down, Ryan. I’ll order you something.”

Michael whips his phone out of his pocket and taps away on it.

“You really don’t-”

“You drink tea, right? Jack said you did. Yep, you’ve got a kettle.” Michael clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Empty, of course. What the fuck kind of tea is this? Russian Caravan? Fuck it, I’ll try it too.”

“Hey-”

“Do you milk in your tea? Sugar? I don’t know how tea works. Do you have coffee?” Michael opens another cabinet. “You don’t even have coffee. He doesn’t even have coffee!”

Michael grabs a pen from somewhere and writes “coffee” down at the top of Ryan’s shopping list stuck on his fridge. He throws the pen on the counter, tosses some old takeaway containers in Ryan’s bin, and checks his phone.

Ryan goes to help him in the kitchen but is stopped by a phone poking into his chest.

“I told you to sit, didn’t I? Go on, to the couch.”

Michael is a whirlwind in Ryan’s kitchen, stacking dishes and emptying old mugs. There’s no space for Ryan to interrupt. It’s a level of mother-henning Ryan hasn’t seen in a good long while, and it’s honestly exhausting watching him.

Ryan, knowing there’s very little he can do to stop Michael at this point, complies with his request.

He almost dozes on the couch, kept awake by Michael’s effortless commentary about his kitchen and the clacking of plates into his dishwasher. When a mug of tea is pressed into his hands Ryan takes it without comment and sips it quietly. He can barely taste it, but the mug is warm and the steam clears his nose out a bit.

The doorbell rings and Michael rushes to answer it. He brings into the living area two Thai dishes and lets Ryan pick which one he wants. The smell of it reminds Ryan how hungry he is and he digs in.

“Honestly it's a miracle they were open before lunch,” Michael says, and sips his tea. “This is awful. How do you drink this?”

Ryan nods to the kitchen. “There’s sugar next to the kettle, but I imagine I’m out of milk.”

“I’ll write it on your list.”

Once they finish eating, Michael tosses a small box of cold and flu medication at Ryan. “Now are you going to take some of this or am I going to have to bully you into it?”

With everything Michael’s already done for him, Ryan can’t argue with him.

“No, I’ll…”

Ryan takes a couple of the tablets with a mouthful of tea.

Now warm, fed, and medicated, there is a lot he wants to say to Michael right now. But the words die in his throat because he doesn’t know exactly how to say them.

Ryan, who doesn’t _need_ someone to look after him but it’s nice to have them anyway. Ryan, who won’t listen to good advice until Michael worms his way through his defences. Ryan, who pushes Michael away so many times but he stays anyway.

Ryan, who now feels better than any cold and flu medication can make him. All because he’s stopped being such a stubborn bastard. Perhaps that title should go to Michael, for dealing with him.

Instead, he says: “How did you find out where I live?”

“Jeremy told me.”

“Jeremy told you?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” There’s a smile playing across Michael’s lips. “He worries about you. And he’s not the only one, because while I was talking to him Jack came up and asked how you were doing.” Michael takes another sip of his tea and smirks. “You’ve got half the crew hounding me for updates and I’ve had to beat back the other half to stop from checking in on you.”

Ryan looks down and away like the corner of his coffee table is the suddenly most interesting thing in the world.

The medication kicks in then, and Ryan decides to take another nap. When he wakes it’s to an empty apartment but his plants are watered, his kitchen clean, and his pantry stocked to the brim.

* * *

Two days later Ryan sits down opposite Michael and flicks through a stack of surveillance photos. He’s still a little pale and shaky, but the worst of it has passed.

“Hey, Ry,” Michael says gently, “you feeling any better?”

“Back up to snuff, I’d say,” Ryan replies.

“You don’t need to look through those anymore,” Michael tells him, “we found the guy and one of his cars. His days are totally numbered now.”

Ryan nods. While he’s peeved Michael had to pick up his slack, the thought of never looking through those photos again was a good one. Hopefully Ryan can pay him back for that at some point.

“Oh, right. I-” Ryan fishes around in his jacket pocket and slides a set of keys across the table. “I uh, well, I got you something.”

Michael takes the keys and twirls them around a finger. “You got me a set of keys? Oh shucks, you shouldn’t have.”

Ryan can’t help the smirk that flits across his face and he looks down. “It’s a Nagasaki Shotaro, the Tron bike. I stole it yesterday and got it repainted. It’s yours.”

The keys slowly wind down around Michael’s finger as he stares at Ryan. “You got me a _Shotaro_?” Ryan, where the hell did you find it?”

Ryan shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It was worth it.”

“Ryan, you didn’t have to do that.”

Ryan puts a hand on the back of his neck. “I wanted to… repay the favour. You bought me food and cleaned my kitchen. And got me to go home while I was being an idiot.”

“Hey,” Michael slides the keys back to Ryan and Ryan shoots a hand out to stop him. Their hands meet on the middle of the table, the keys trapped under them. “You don’t have to _repay_ me anything, okay? I helped you out because I wanted to.”

Michael narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling so it comes across mischievous. “It was all purely selfish on my part, I can assure you.”

Ryan’s other hand comes down to rest on top of his other and with it he pushes Michael’s hand back towards him. “Then consider this me selfishly wanting to give you a gift.”

It is Michael’s turn to shrug. “Suppose I can’t argue with that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jobs always go well until they don’t. The assassination itself is a piece of cake, just a minor scuffle in a warehouse that Ryan quickly wins. But somehow, and Ryan doesn’t see how it happens, the warehouse is now on fire.

“Oh, fantastic.” Ryan tucks his gun into his belt and darts between the rows of items. Just his luck that the stupid warehouse is full of furniture as well, because it catches alight with alarming speed. Ryan’s been involved in enough fires to know if he doesn’t get out before the ceiling catches, he’s toast.

Ryan darts around a bookcase and leaps over a couch. The smoke grows thick and toxic and makes his eyes water, so he crouches low to avoid the worst of the smoke and for the most part he manages. The exertion strips precious oxygen from his lungs and he can’t afford to breathe the smoke in. While the fire is blazing hot at his back it will be the smoke that kills him.

The fire crawls over the shelves and climbs over his head. He can’t see how close it is to the ceiling- the smoke is too thick. Ryan sprints back through the path he remembers taking just a scant few minutes ago. It’s always different on the way back and the fire casts wild shadows. Still, he manages it well, and makes it most of the way without incident.

A piece of flaming shelf twists in the heat and catches his right hand.

“Ow, fuck!”

Hand throbbing, Ryan stumbles out of the warehouse and jogs away as fast as he can. He is two blocks away when he hears the building collapse behind him and the roar of sirens starting up in the distance.

He came by bike, and it is stowed close by. But the way his hand screams at him makes him reluctant to consider steering with it. Even thinking of moving it makes him wince. His apartment has excellent medical supplies, mostly thanks to Michael, but it’s too far to walk tonight.

Ryan pulls his phone out with his uninjured hand. Maybe he should call Michael and ask him for a lift.

But it’s very early in the morning, and Michael is probably asleep. And it’s quite a drive from Michael’s apartment to here…

Geoff’s apartment is only a half hour walk away. The edge of Downtown Los Santos is right in front of him, and he can practically see the building from here. If he stuffs his hand in his pocket he can probably pass for a regular guy and not a guy who just burned a warehouse down.

Besides, Geoff ordered the hit. He’ll be more amenable to waking up in the middle of the night to let Ryan in.

Ryan brushes off as much ash and blood as he can and sets off.

It is not an enjoyable walk, but nobody bothers him. Just another face in the dead-of-night crowd, looking with mild interest at the firetrucks and police cars racing past.

Forty minutes later Ryan knocks on Geoff’s door, and five minutes later, a blinking Geoff answers.

“Jesus, what happened to your hand?”

“Warehouse fire. The assassination went perfectly.” Ryan bustles past Geoff and makes a break for the medicine cabinet. Jack tries to keep it well stocked but the Lads are over here all the time. Gauze and antiseptics go faster in this apartment than the good snacks.

But the fact that Ryan is here right now raiding the cabinet suggests it may not, in fact, be entirely because of the Lads.

“Perfectly, with your hand like that? Do you need help with it?” Geoff is much more awake and alert now. Ryan can practically feel him twitching to take a look at his hand. But no, patching himself up is something Ryan is well used to doing. Even if it’s his right and favourite hand and his left has to do the hard work.

“Go back to bed, Geoff.” Ryan waves him away and Geoff reluctantly retreats.

There is a nasty cut running along the length of his palm and the skin on either side is burned. Ryan can’t open or close his hand without biting his lip. Even now the cut bleeds sluggishly, despite the pressure Ryan put on it during the walk over. It’s not good.

But it won’t be the worst he’s had. Ryan cleans, stitches, and dresses the wound with his left hand. It takes him almost an hour with numerous breaks, but it gets done to his standards.

His hand will have a cool scar, but everything else looks like it will recover in time.

Ryan settles down in one of the spare bedrooms and goes out like a light.

  


* * *

  


He sleeps poorly and wakes up at the crack of dawn a scant few hours later, hand aflame.

Ryan pads over to the kitchen and rips open the medicine cabinet. There is some ibuprofen in a bottle but not much else painkiller wise. It needs to be taken after a meal so Ryan resolves to scrounge up some breakfast.

Which turns out to be much more difficult that he expects since his hand is stuck under a bandage. A home cooked meal is out of the question, but there are other options. There aren’t any ready meals in the fridge or the pantry but there is a loaf of bread sitting on the counter.

Toast. He can make toast.

“Are you kidding me?” Ryan asks the loaf of bread. It’s one of Jack’s fancy wholegrain loaves and it’s not sliced. But lacking any better options, Ryan hunts around in some drawers until he finds a bread knife and gets to work.

It’s not great, cutting bread with one hand basically stuck inside a mitten. A mitten which also feels like it’s on fire. Ryan grits his teeth and puts his back into it.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Geoff asks from behind him.

Ryan whirls around and points the knife at Geoff, startled. Once he figures out who it is he lowers it.

“I’m making toast?”

“You’ve butchered a loaf of bread is what you’ve done.”

Ryan looks back at his handiwork and has to agree. For some reason the dumb knife wouldn’t cut straight. Slicing bread with his left hand is much harder than his right for some reason. And Ryan knows knives, there are a dozen of them hanging on his wall, and he’s been using them for as long as he can remember.

“Never cut something with your left hand before?” Geoff asks. “Here, let me-”

The knife comes up again between them. Geoff raises his arms up in mock surrender.

“Jesus, Ryan, cool it.”

Geoff spies the bottle of ibuprofen on the counter and he eyes Ryan with more concern.

“How’s your hand?”

“It’ll be fine.” Ryan replies stiffly. “Just need to make breakfast.”

“I can make you something better than just toast,” Geoff insists and he carefully plucks the knife from Ryan grip. “Sit at the table. Go on.”

Ryan is about one more ruined slice of bread away from just ripping into the loaf with his teeth but he forces himself to calm down. Geoff knows how to cook, and apart from the Sushi Incident Ryan has loved everything he’s made.

Besides, Ryan’s hand is practically throbbing now. He’d like to let it rest on the cool tabletop.

It takes some gentle nudging from Geoff, but he eventually moves to the kitchen table and takes a seat. Geoff turns away from him and busies himself in the kitchen.

“It’s ‘cause the knife is only serrated on one side,” Geoff explains, and cuts what’s left of the loaf into neat slices. “When you cut with your left hand the knife wants to twist away. Very similar thing happens with scissors.”

Ryan grunts in reply and taps his uninjured hand against the tabletop. “The struggle of the left handed.”

“And don’t get me started on guns!” Geoff almost pokes his eye out pointing to a scar on his face with the knife. “Pick up the wrong one and you’ll get hot brass to the face.”

“Funnily enough I haven’t had that problem.”

“Of course  _ you _ wouldn’t,” Geoff complains, dropping two neat slices of bread into the toaster. “Look at me, I’m Ryan Haywood. I could pick a gun up off the street and get a headshot first try.”

Ryan smirks and plays it up a little. “Well, not everyone can be Ryan Haywood.”

“Of course not,” Geoff fires up a pan on the stove and throws some butter in. “Then who would be me? I mean you’re great, Ryan, at almost everything, but not even you could be  _ moi _ .”

Bacon and then eggs make their way into the pan. Geoff keeps up an easy going commentary the entire time and successfully distracts Ryan from the pain in his hand. In another life, Geoff would’ve made a great entertainer.

“You’re a terrible Lad wrangler, for one.” The toast pops and Geoff tosses it onto a plate. He grabs an avocado and halves it. “I swear, Jack and I can’t go anywhere by ourselves. If I leave you alone with the Lads I can guarantee something will be on fire by the time we get back.”

“You can’t blame  _ me _ for that,” Ryan scoffs. “They know I don’t have real authority over them.”

“No,” The avocado goes on the toast first, then the bacon, and then an egg. “You stopped following through on your threats. When was the last time you hired someone to mug Gavin? Or blew up one of Jeremy’s cars? You’re all talk nowadays.”

“I’m not all…” Well, Geoff might have a point. Gavin is so good at picking out muggers before they get to him, organising one is almost never worth the trouble. And Jeremy  _ loves _ his cars, all sixty-something of them, and Ryan knows how much he’s spent painting them all his signature colour scheme. The satisfaction of turning a rocket launcher on one isn’t worth the moping around after. Jeremy has a mean pair of puppy-dog eyes when he wants to.

But still, Ryan doesn’t like that Geoff is right so he argues.

“You think I’m all talk?” Ryan smirks and he makes sure it’s a dangerous one.

“Oh don’t you  _ dare _ ,” Geoff waggles an egg turner at Ryan. “You’ve got nothing to prove to me, so if you do something I’ll make sure you know  _ I’m _ not all talk.”

“I dunno, you’re sure doing a hell of a lot of talking right now.”

That earns a loud laugh from Geoff, and Ryan smiles to himself.

Geoff puts a full plate and a glass of water down in front of Ryan. It’s eggs on toast essentially, but Geoff’s seasoned the eggs and Ryan spies a bottle of lemon juice on the counter for the avocado. Geoff’s even cut each slice of toast in half so Ryan doesn’t have to fumble around with a knife.

It’s sweet, ridiculously so, and Ryan doesn’t know where to look.

“I feel like I should have ordered this at a fancy hotel,” Ryan says.

“It’s just egg on toast, I make it all the time,” Geoff replies. “But it’s lucky we’re up before Jack because she usually monopolises the avocado.”

“No, it’s just… More like I should have given you money for it. I don’t know if I can eat this.”

“Of course you can.” Geoff sits down next to him with a similar looking plate. “Just say thanks and we’ll call it even stevens.”

“Well, thank you.” Ryan takes a bite and it’s  _ good _ . “Maybe I could do that stakeout you were badgering us to-”

“Nope, no, none of that.” Geoff cuts him off. “I will not have you wandering around this apartment thinking you owe me a favour.”

“But-”

“No buts, Ryan.” Geoff levels him with a look and Ryan goes still under its intensity. “You can do many incredible things, Ryan Haywood, and I hope one of them is letting people do nice things for you.”

Ryan, hesitatingly, nods. Geoff goes on.

“Even if it’s hard with me being your boss. You’ve worked for me for quite a few years now, and you’ve taken bullets for me and the rest of the crew. So I like to think of us as friends, at the very least.”

“I think of us that way too.” Ryan leans in and carries on before Geoff can continue. “And that bullet thing works both ways.”

“Well it’s only fair. Wouldn’t be much of a boss if I couldn’t take one for the team.”

Ryan takes another bite of his toast. “Do you remember that time at the pier? Where I-”

“Almost died of blood loss? Yeah I don’t think I could forget. You passed out in the getaway car and scared us half to death. Plus you were the  _ worst _ on bed rest. I think we had to lock the guest room door to keep you from trying to work.”

Ryan smiles to himself. “But you didn’t get shot, did you?”

Geoff has to concede. “No. And you’re better about that sort of stuff now. I’ve heard the Lads have been looking out for you recently?”

“Oh you  _ heard _ about that?” Ryan leans back in his chair and throws his bad arm over the top. “ _ I _ heard you were pestering Michael about me while I was off sick.”

“Of course I was.” Geoff replies earnestly, and Ryan isn’t expecting that. “How else was I going to make sure you were okay?”

Ryan puts his free hand on the back of his neck. “Alright, fair enough.”

The rest of the meal discusses lighter topics. When they’re done, Geoff clears their plates and passes Ryan the bottle of ibuprofen.

“Thanks, Geoff. Really.”

Geoff gives him a little salute. “Think nothing of it.”

Before Geoff leaves, he stops and turns around. “Although, if you  _ were _ volunteering to do that stakeout…?”

“Oooh, ouch,” Ryan monotones. “My hand. Alas.”

That makes Geoff break out in real laughter. “Maybe I can scrounge up something stronger for you.”

And it’s funny, Ryan thinks while Geoff shouts down the hall and a sleepy Jack shouts back, because Ryan hasn’t worried about his hand all breakfast.


	4. Chapter 4

Ryan isn’t an insomniac, okay?

He manages a good six or seven hours most nights, and more when there’s a quiet few days between Geoff’s schemes. Twice this year he’s even woken up in the afternoon but most of the time he keeps a decent sleep schedule.

Most of the time.

He doesn’t know what it is this week. Maybe he’s a bit more stressed, what with the upcoming heist and all. But he’s done dozens of heists and none of them have him lying awake at night staring at the ceiling.

It’s not his ceiling. It’s Geoff’s, because Geoff is planning a heist and it’s easier if everyone is under the same roof. Ryan’s never had problems sleeping here before. Geoff's even cleared him for fulltime work again since his hand has healed and he feels better than ever.

Guilt?

For what? He hasn’t done anything… recently. Well, nothing he regrets. Well, nothing that wasn’t earned. Most nights Ryan is quite content to go to bed knowing his life is better because he made someone else’s worse. Just as long as it’s not someone he cares about, that’s enough for him. 

It’s Los Santos, you take what you can get. Ryan doesn’t think about it much.

Gavin, though, loves to toss him hypotheticals. Ethical and moral dilemmas designed to make him really think about who he is and what he values, and Ryan takes great pleasure in sidestepping all of it by blindly agreeing to whatever situation Gavin throws out. If there’s no real money getting tossed around then what does it matter?

When there  _ is _ real money involved, well. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks. And up until now Ryan’s slept easy with the consequences of a fatter wallet.

The first couple of days of reduced sleep don’t affect him much. Sure he mixes a few more of his words up but the crew can blame that on Ryan being Ryan. It gets harder after five days of only a few hours’ sleep each night and his memory starts to go. His mind wanders more and he forgets why he leaves the apartment one afternoon.

Ryan walks into an Ammunation, gun in hand, and stares at it for a few seconds.

“Did I mean to take this with me, or…?”

It takes the shrieking of a customer and the swearing from the cashier for everything to click into place.

“Oh yeah, I’m robbing this place. Hands up, everyone.”

The cashier shoots first and Ryan dives to the right behind a display. He fires once, twice, thrice, before noticing the gun is clicking empty.

“Wait a sec,” Ryan says to himself, “I’m  _ returning _ this pistol. Right. It was the wrong kind of pistol.”

Ryan chucks the pistol over the display towards the cashier and they duck behind the counter. Ryan uses the time to draw his loaded pistol and shoots behind the counter.

“My bad,” Ryan tells the corpse as he takes the cash from the till. May as well. Never let it be said Ryan doesn’t commit to what he starts.

But he walks out of there gingerly and slips away back to Geoff’s apartment with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

This is the point he stops ignoring the problem and tries to do something about it.

None of the medicines and sleep aids he can get his hands on seem to work. By day eight he’s so tired even his face paint and mask can’t hide the bags under his eyes. He wanders around Geoff’s apartment with a vacant look in his eyes while his crewmembers try to plan the next stage of the heist.

“You alright, Ry?” Michael says in a hushed tone the next time they’re alone. Ryan waves him away.

“I’m good.”

Michael crosses his arms and leans against a wall.

“You look exhausted, man.”

“It’s the face paint.”

“Yeah, no.” Michael pokes him in the chest. “You’re a worse liar than I am. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Ryan eyes the finger on his chest blearily before blinking and meeting Michael’s eyes. He pushes forwards, seeing if Michael will drop it but he doesn’t. Ryan sidesteps around both Michael and the finger and shuffles down the hallway.

“I’m fixing it,” Ryan mutters to Michael behind him.

It turns out glaring at the ceiling for five hours does not, in fact, count as fixing it.

On day nine Jack catches him rifling through the liquor cabinet in Geoff’s apartment that late evening. Geoff doesn’t touch the stuff anymore, but Jack and Michael keep it well stocked. 

Gavin and Jeremy are more of the “emptying the cabinet” kind of guys.

“Whatever you’re looking for,” Jack tells him with a quiet but commanding voice, “you’re not going to find it there.”

Ryan shuts the cabinet and glares at Jack. Maybe if he wasn’t in his sleepwear and padding around barefoot it would get her to leave him alone, but as he is, she continues to look at him nonplussed.

But it's also Jack. She can glare at a brick wall and get it to cower before her. How is Ryan supposed to compete with that?

“I’m not looking for anything.” Ryan lies.

Jack’s expression softens. “Still can’t sleep?”

There’s really no point dodging around it. Reluctantly, Ryan nods.

Jack gives him an appraising look, her eyes calculating. Ryan can’t do anything else but wait for her judgement. Will she sneer at him? Tell Geoff he’s unfit to be part of the heist? He hates the way it looks like she’s evaluating him and he has no idea how he’s measuring up. It takes most of what little concentration he has left to keep his eyes trained on her face, ready for whatever verdict she gives.

“Follow me.” Jack says at last, and beckons him over with a finger.

She’s already turned around and walking away before Ryan reacts, clearly not worried about whether Ryan will follow or not. Which he does, but mostly out of curiosity.

Jack leads him to the lounge in the living room. She sits cross legged on one side, turned to face the length of the lounge so her back is up against the arm rest.

“Lie down and put your head in my lap,” Jack instructs.

Ryan frowns at her. He doesn’t know what he is expecting, but it isn’t this. He doesn’t understand.

“Uhh…”

“Please.” A faint smile settles on Jack’s face and she pats the lounge in front of her. It’s not her fake smile designed to ease the easily misled. It crinkles the skin around her eyes and pulls her cheeks up more than it moves her lips. It’s genuine.

Ryan obliges.

The lounge is long enough for Ryan to lay his feet out without them falling off the edge. Geoff doesn’t do things by halves, especially when his living room is regularly filled with five other boisterous personalities. There are two other large couches nestled around an old and stained coffee table, and a comfortable armchair is sat to one side. Two lamps cast a yellow light and long shadows across the room.

Despite the size of everything, Ryan has been here long enough for it all to feel cosy.

Ryan crosses his ankles and wraps his arms around his waist. Jack gently places her fingers on his shoulders. Her hands are calloused, and her nails short and practical. Ryan can just feel them through the fabric of his shirt and he tenses up.

Ryan tries to tilt his head back to see her face but only succeeds in raising his eyebrows.

“Can I touch your hair?” Jack asks. She does it softly, almost timidly, and that doesn’t make sense to Ryan. Jack’s never done anything timidly in her life.

“What? My hair?”

“Yeah.”

“I… okay.”

Nobody’s touched his hair in as long as he can remember. Except for that one time some dickhead pulled his ponytail in the middle of a fight, and Ryan made sure he regretted it. At the same time he’s aware that’s not something Jack would ever do, and that’s the only reason he gives her permission to touch it.

It’s only now Ryan figures out what Jack’s goal is. She’s not going to rat on him to Geoff, or laugh at him. She’s trying to help him.

He’s taut as a bowstring as Jack takes his hair tie out and places it on the coffee table. But the fingers doing the work are gentle, and practiced, and he relaxes slightly into her lap. Slightly.

Those fingers card through his hair, slowly, and untangle the knots. If hair falls over his eyes she brushes it away.

The feeling is… unreal. Every new movement is unexpected and it makes him startle. Her hands touch his ear and he almost leaps off the lounge. It’s too much and he  _ hates _ that he can’t see where her hands are moving to. His eyes dart around the room from one entrance to the other, to the window, and back again.

It’s Geoff’s apartment and he knows he’s safe here. The chances of someone breaking in and attacking him are miniscule. Ryan always has a knife on him and now is no exception, and he doubts Jack is unarmed, but he’s lying down and won’t be ready just in case someone does.

Jack must feel how tense he is because her hands stop still in his hair.

“Shut your eyes,” Jack instructs before continuing.

He can’t.

But he nods anyway, too on edge to even think about forcing a word out. Jack leans forwards and he sees a curtain of red hair fall around him. Jack’s eyes peek out at him and she smiles.

It takes a couple of minutes, and a few false starts, but slowly his eyes slip close and he barely even notices. Jack’s fingers scratch against his scalp and he gets used to it, every new adjustment of her hands no longer making him jump. His ankles uncross and lie still on the lounge.

At one point he feels both her hands cup either side of his head. It should make him nervous, having someone hold his head like that. That’s everything that makes him  _ him _ . But Jack’s hands are warm and solid and he doesn’t feel anything else apart from safe. Secure.

His arms slip to his sides.

Her hands are over his ears now. How did he never notice how cold the tops of his ears were? She rubs circles into his sideburns and if he could, he would sink into the lounge. Like ice he wants to melt into it. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this relaxed, limbs so heavy by his sides, lost in the head massage.

This is  _ luxury _ . How did he ever get so far without one?

Of course he falls asleep. As he does, he swears he feels soft lips press into his hairline.

  


* * *

  


When Ryan wakes, he knows it’s much later. There’s a big pillow behind his head and a blanket thrown over him. Wait, not thrown, because it’s tucked under the lounge cushions and someone went to the effort of folding the top down. He is deliciously, deliciously warm and better rested than he has been in over a week.

The blinds are down, but the clock on the wall tells him it’s early afternoon. He slept through the whole night and the entire morning as well.

There are quiet noises coming from the kitchen. Murmuring and the faint clatter of cutlery, chairs scraping, and laughter. Ryan untangles himself from the blanket and runs his hand through his hair.

It’s oily, which is expected after someone spends half the night playing with it. His fingers catch on braids and he trails down the length of one. There’s no tie at the bottom so it will fall apart soon, but he likes the way it feels. He grabs the whole mess of hair and ties it back into his usual ponytail. He leaves the braids in, even tries to arrange them inside the ponytail so they show off.

Jack tip toes in while his hands are buried deep in his hair and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights, tongue stuck out and legs all over the lounge cushions.

“Hey,” Jack says, “sleep well?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Ryan plants his feet on the ground, a little embarrassed.

“Here,” Jack dances up the lounge and sits behind him on the backrest. Her hands go back through his hair and she frees it from the hasty ponytail.

Look, he doesn’t do his best work after just waking up, okay?

“Don’t worry,” Jack says while she fiddles with his hair, “I made sure Gavin didn’t get any blackmail material.”

Ryan’s eyes were already shut again. He hums, easily falling back into the conversation with Jack’s playful words. “And you managed to keep the whole apartment quiet for the whole morning. That’s what I would consider your most impressive work.”

Jack laughs. “I never said a word to them. It was just something they did when they saw you this morning.”

“Oh. Well... thanks anyway.”

“Any time.” With another motion, Ryan’s hair is tied back. He runs a hand over his head lightly, feeling the bumps and twists of the braids.

“I mean that,” Jack continues more sternly. “If I have to hear about another Ammunation you accidentally rob-”

“I won’t,” Ryan promises. “It won’t happen again. I will… keep you posted if I get this bad again.”

She squeezes his shoulders and stands up to leave.

“We’re all trying to look out for you,” Jack says, “like you look out for us. And we’re all happy to do that, you know that, right?”

Ryan grabs the blanket and folds it up.

“I think I’m beginning to get it.”

“Good.” Moment over, Jack tosses a couch cushion at him and it hits him in the face. “Michael and Gavin want the TV soon, so you’d better clear out or they’ll sit on you.”

Ryan tosses the cushion back and misses her by an inch.

“I’d like to see them try!”


	5. Chapter 5

No-one is more surprised than Ryan when the heist is a roaring success.

“No bikes after us?” Geoff asks over the comms.

“Not on me,” Jack says.

“Me n’ Gav are clear!” Michael shouts, and Ryan winces at the volume.

“All clear on our end,” Jeremy says. “I’m hitching a ride with the Vagabond.”

“Lucky you!” Geoff replies, and Jeremy groans.

“When was the last time you rode with him on a motorbike? He’s a maniac.”

“ _He’s a maniac, maniac_ ,” Jack sings, “ _on the dancefloor…_ ”

“Well excuse me,” Ryan gives Jeremy the full force of his snark, “would you prefer it if I drove calmly and smoothly the next time gang members shoot at us? I'll remember that the next time you’re riding bitch.”

“Ooooooh,” Michael, Geoff, and Jack say.

“Jeremy, you’d better watch out,” Gavin adds.

“It wasn’t the evasive action, you dope,” Jeremy shoots back, “it’s how you’re _still driving_.”

“If you don’t like it, you can walk.”

“God, maybe I should.”

Ryan takes a corner faster than even he’s comfortable with and enjoys the way Jeremy yelps and clutches him tighter. Jeremy had started out with one hand on Ryan’s shoulder and the other pointing a shotgun behind them, but once the threats had been dealt with Jeremy relaxed into his role as passenger. Now Jeremy sits with both his arms wrapped tightly around Ryan’s waist. If he were taller, his head would be resting on Ryan’s shoulder. As it is, Ryan can feel his face pressing against one of Ryan’s shoulder blades.

It’s… nice, this half hug. It’s warmer than he thinks it should be. The last time he’s experienced something like this was with Jack.

And with all the heist prep and anticipation leading up to the big day, there hasn’t really been any of the typical crew interaction. Everyone just worked. If there is one thing Ryan craves right now, it’s downtime, but he doesn't want to spend it alone.

“That’s right,” Ryan teases, “keep insulting the guy who’s giving you a lift.” He frowns to himself. “Wait, are you happy to come to my rendezvous with me or would you rather I just take you-”

“Just drive, moron.”

Ryan laughs. “If you insist.”

“God, please no wait-” Jeremy stammers, but Ryan accelerates and drowns out the rest of his words.

There’s no other word for it, Ryan giggles when he turns onto the motorway and really guns it. Cars blur past and Ryan shoots by so close to one he knocks the cigarette out of the hand of its unobservant driver. The bike struggles and doesn’t quite steer like it’s meant to, and Ryan makes a mental note to check that out as soon as he can. He hasn’t had the bike long but it’s already one of his favourites.

“I swear to God, Ryan,” Jeremy hollers directly in Ryan’s ear, “if you don’t slow down I’ll jab you in the fucking ribs!” He pokes Ryan in his side for emphasis and Ryan winces when he hits a bruise.

“Alright, alright.”

Ryan settles down to a more survivable speed and they pass traffic at a reasonable pace. Jeremy’s grip around Ryan’s waist relaxes and the howling wind softens.

Ryan’s rendezvous is a garage he owns on the edge of the city. It has a couple of discrete getaway vehicles one can use to keep a low profile after a job, and Ryan’s given a key to everyone in the crew. Not that they’ll be here tonight, after most heists everyone goes home and sleeps for about twelve hours. But again, Ryan’s plan is to fix his bike.

Ryan hasn’t been here in about a month, too busy with heist planning, and he’s not looking forward to airing it out.

When he opens the garage door, he’s greeted with the smell of must and dampness and he sighs. Jeremy wrinkles his nose and hops off the passenger seat.

“Oh ground, I missed you,” Jeremy makes a show of giving the floor a pat. Ryan rolls his eyes and shrugs out of his jacket.

This is a mistake. All the movement reminds him his body armour took a couple of solid hits, and fresh waves of pain roll across his back. Worse, he knows whatever he feels now won’t hold a candle to tomorrow. Oh this was going to suck.

The body armour goes next, and Ryan is definitely more careful with it. He rolls his shoulders a few times and winces.

“Remind me to stop getting shot, Jer.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, body armour just took a pounding.”

Jeremy hisses in some sympathetic air between his teeth. “I really don’t envy you right now.”

“It’s nothing serious, it’s just…”

The smart thing to do would be to show Jeremy a vehicle he can use to get home and sleep, but Ryan really enjoyed their motorbike ride here. Ryan’s wide awake and pumped, and he just wants to spend more time with Jeremy.

How do you ask someone to stay without sounding unbearably needy? Ryan’s lack of sociability is really biting him in the ass now. It’s not like he can just _ask_ , can he?

No.

But if there was a reason for Jeremy to stay, a _real_ reason, well then Ryan’s just being practical.

“...It’s gonna suck repairing the bike, is all.”

There we go, what a sensible reason for Jeremy to stay. Ryan gives Jeremy a side eye while he waits for him to reply.

“Well you can always chuck it in the ocean instead,” Jeremy says bitterly.

Ryan waits.

“Oh,” Jeremy says, “wait, do you want a hand? I don’t have to go home right away.”

Ryan can’t keep the grin off his face.

“If you want to.”

Jeremy looks up and sees the expression on Ryan’s face. He rolls his eyes, but it’s playful.

“Yeah, I want to. Show me where you keep the damn tools.”

Delighted, Ryan leads the way to the workbench and Jeremy dutifully leads the bike to the spot.

There’s not much they can do here, but if Ryan was able to steer it the whole way here without any difficulties there couldn’t be that much wrong with it. A quick inspection shows the bodywork is littered with dents and scratches, and one of the fuel lines has a small gash in it. At least those are fixable things.

The bike is a Pegassi Oppressor, after all. Ryan would rather die than leave it worse for wear. The thing has _wings_ and he’s not letting go of it until he learns how to use them. The Vagabond is, after all, known as an expert with all vehicles and Ryan’s determined to keep that the case.

If only there were more spots in the city more facilitating for flying motorbikes. As it is, Ryan knows of a couple of good spots near Sandy Shores that he could probably test them out. Jeremy had his own Oppressor for a couple of days before Gavin got his hands on it and promptly destroyed it, so he might know somewhere good.

Jeremy takes the fuel tank off and empties it while Ryan texts Geoff to let him know they both arrived safely at the garage. No, Ryan’s driving didn’t kill them both. No, Gavin isn’t allowed to borrow the Oppressor once it’s repaired. Yes, both Ryan and Jeremy will swing by the apartment tomorrow to go over their post-heist responsibilities.

Ryan relays the conversation to Jeremy and he snorts.

“Gavin’s not even allowed to _look_ at this bike. Or I’ll dump his shitty Faggio in the ocean, see how he likes it. Hey, do you have one of those, uh-”

Jeremy mimes like he’s stabbing someone.

“Knife? Yeah, the top drawer-”

“No, it… plunges. Plunger. But part of the kit-”

“Yep, over here.”

Ryan passes over a small plunger-like tool with a couple of extra mechanical components attached to it, and Jeremy sticks it on the side of the fuel tank. With a few tugs that Jeremy puts his back into, the dent pops out and the fuel tank looks almost good as new.

“Why did you…” Ryan makes the same stabbing motion.

“Well how would you plunge something?”

Ryan uses two hands to make the same motion, just aiming downwards.

“It looks like you’re just stabbing someone on the ground!” Jeremy laughs. “Or jerking them off.”

“I’m gonna stab you in a minute,” Ryan shakes his head.

Half an hour later it looks like Jeremy’s got the worst of the dents out, and Ryan thanks his lucky stars he didn’t have to do any of it. He fixes the fuel line and roots around his drawers for a small jar of black nail polish he can use to fix the paint job. It’s not a long lasting fix, but it will do in a pinch.

Jeremy finds some drinks in a fridge and passes a Diet Coke to Ryan. He’s also found beer, and Ryan has no idea what that came from, but he supposes he’s no longer the only person that uses this garage. One of Michael’s cars is here and Gavin’s left a laptop, not to mention the grenade launcher sitting on a table he knows is Jack’s. Even if it’s clear no one's been here in awhile, there’s still evidence Ryan’s space is proving useful. Something warm curls up in his stomach.

“Found it.” The bottle is inside a box of drill bits, of all things. “You’d better let me do this part,” Ryan tells Jeremy, who raises his hands and backs off. “This takes _finesse_.” He crouches down and unscrews the lid.

“Oh it takes _finesse_ , does it? To put nail polish on a bike? I bet all your years doing your facepaint helps, doesn't it.”

Jeremy nudges Ryan’s knee where he’s crouched and Ryan overbalances. With his hands full, there’s nothing stopping him from falling flat on his ass.

“Ow, fuck,” Ryan grunts out, back aflame.

“Shit, sorry Ry,” Jeremy grabs him by the arm and sets him upright. “Fuck, it’s probably time I got out of your hair and-”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Ryan says, the words falling out of his mouth. They’re far more honest than he intends but he panics.

Jeremy’s worried expression softens.

Ryan clutches at Jeremy’s hand. “I mean, you can stay, if you still want to. Once I’m done touching up the paint, there’s a T.V and Xbox by the couch. We could play something?”

Jeremy beams like it’s exactly the answer he wants and he nods.

“I know I left a Halo game here. And you know what? Fuck it, leave the paint job. You can order food while I set everything up.”

“What? No, I just need to-”

“Nope, get up.”

Jeremy is stronger than Ryan thinks, and Ryan finds himself back on his feet with very little input of his own. Jeremy tugs him over to the lounge but Ryan digs his heels in.

“It’ll only take about ten minutes-”

“Don’t care.” Oh man, Jeremy is _strong_ because he’s able to manhandle Ryan to the lounge despite Ryan’s protests. “It’s not every day Ryan wants to sit down and play video games with you.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Jeremy sits him down and tosses his phone at him, which Ryan catches. It’s already unlocked and open to Jeremy’s favourite food ordering app.

“It’s just… you know,” Jeremy says falteringly. He’s turned away from Ryan but Ryan sees the way his hands still over the cables. “You tend to disappear right after heists, and you stay away from the living room when me and the Lads boot up the Xbox. And you’ve told us you’re not the most sociable, so…”

“I didn’t think…” It’s Ryan’s turn to trail off. He disappears after heists to take care of his injuries. He stays away from the living room because he doesn’t think the Lads want him there, interrupting their Lad hangout. But he’s never _asked_ about it. Just made his own assumptions, as they did to him.

“Well, if you do want me,” Ryan keeps his eyes down on Jeremy’s phone, scrolling through the meal options, “I’m happy to loiter around the lounge room more.”

“I’d like that.”

The T.V screen flashes onto the main menu and Jeremy grins at Ryan, wide and mischievous. It’s a look that wouldn’t look out of place on Gavin’s face.

“Any time you want, I’m happy to wipe the floor with you.” Jeremy continues.

Ryan quirks his eyebrow at that and tosses the phone back to Jeremy, who manages to keep it from hitting the floor but it’s a close one.

“You sure about that?” Ryan smirks. “I’ve been gaming a good deal longer than you have.”

“Exactly my point,” Jeremy passes him a controller. “You’re an old man, your reflexes are probably garbage compared to mine.” He disappears behind Ryan to head to the fridge.

“You ass, you saw me on the heist today.” Ryan pauses. “Make sure to bring over a booster seat as well so you can see the screen.”

Ryan almost jumps out of his seat when Jeremy presses a cold can to the back of his neck.

“You fucker!”

Jeremy plops down next to him on the lounge and gives him the can. He cracks open another beer as he does. “You know you deserved that.”

The lounge is small, and Jeremy’s pressed right up against Ryan’s side. Ryan jabs him in the ribs and Jeremy shouts.

“Let’s start with the campaign to warm up,” Ryan says, innocent as anything.

“Oh I’m _Ryan_ and I need to _warm up_ -”

Ryan jabs him in the ribs again.

  
  


* * *

Late into the night, Ryan and Jeremy untangle their legs and stand.

“Eugh,” Jeremy says eloquently, “I think it’s about time I headed home.”

“I’ll drop you there,” Ryan says.

“Oh no,” Jeremy shakes his head, “you’re not driving me anywhere. Not unless it’s life and death.”

Jeremy clicks his fingers.

“I’ll take the Oppressor. We’ll see how good a job you did repairing the fuel line, won’t we?”

“... We?”

“You’ll need to come with me so you can take it back here. Finish your paint job.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Come on, Ry,” Jeremy pleaded, “don’t you want to see what an Oppressor can do? Plus it’s _your_ turn to ride bitch.”

“Well I _am_ curious…”

  


* * *

  


Ryan regrets everything.

“Oh God, oh God,” Ryan mutters into Jeremy’s shoulder blade.

“What was that?” Jeremy yells over the wind. He takes another sharp turn and Ryan squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see any of this.

A horn blares in Ryan’s ear and the Oppressor swerves to the right. Ryan’s stomach lurches with it.

“Is this revenge?!” Ryan shouts.

“Of course not, Ry. I would never be that petty.”

They turn onto the motorway and Ryan knows it won’t take them to Jeremy’s apartment. Where the hell is Jeremy taking them?

Jeremy accelerates. “Well, maybe a little.”

The road curves ahead of them, but Jeremy ignores it and carries on straight.

“Jeremy!”

“Maybe a lot. Hold on tight!”

A small gap in the railing rapidly approaches. Jeremy makes a minute adjustment and that’s all the time that’s left before Jeremy launches the Oppressor out into the night sky.

Ryan holds onto Jeremy like his life depends on it. It does.

There is one terrifying second of falling before Ryan feels the wings on either side of the bike outstretch, and they catch the air exactly as they are designed to.

Jeremy tilts the bike forwards and Ryan’s stomach lurches as they gain speed. But Jeremy pulls up and levels out, and after that it’s quite pleasant. There’s no need for the engine to be on so they’re surrounded by the sounds of the city. The wind is gentler. Ryan’s eyes light up as they coast between skyscrapers, the glow of neon signs drenching them in colour.

They glide past several city blocks before Jeremy brings them gently back to earth. The engine kicks in and they make it the rest of the way to Jeremy’s apartment relatively peacefully.

“Well what do you know,” Jeremy says amicably, “fuel line held up pretty good.”

Ryan dismounts the Oppressor with shaky legs. “You’re never complaining about my driving again.”

“Just showing you what it’s like to sit behind you on a bike, and I think I made my point pretty clear.”

“Yeah, I think I got the message. But you _have_ to teach me how to fly that thing,” Ryan insists, “it was fucking incredible… oof!”

Ryan freezes when he feels Jeremy’s arms wrap around him.

“Thanks for hanging out with me today, Ry,” Jeremy says. “I didn’t know how much I needed it.”

“I think I needed it too,” Ryan admits.

“I know a spot we can take the Oppressor,” Jeremy says, “lots of jumps. Far away from any large bodies of- woah!”

Ryan picks Jeremy up and swings him around a little. Jeremy yelps, indignant, and Ryan laughs. It’s worth the pain in his back and shoulders.

“Whenever you’ve got the time, give me a call.”

Ryan deposits Jeremy back on the ground and Jeremy manages to avoid looking too offended.

“You’re such an asshole, God.”

“Yeah, I am. See you at Geoff’s tomorrow?”

“See ya then.”

* * *

Geoff’s apartment is unlocked and Ryan lets himself in. He nods a hello to Jack and shuffles past her on his way to the lounge room.

The Lads are already in there, setting up a game. Ryan lurks by the doorway, suddenly shy.

He must make a small sound because Gavin looks up and beams at him. Ryan flashes him a small smile.

“Room for a fourth?”

He holds up a box of doughnuts - an offering.

“Ryan!” Jeremy shouts, and launches himself at Ryan.

The doughnuts go flying as Ryan sacrifices them to catch Jeremy properly. He isn’t expecting Jeremy’s flying hug and staggers backwards a couple of steps, adjusting.

“Aww, my doughnuts…”

“Course there’s room,” Michael says, and bends down to pick up the doughnuts. “Geoff’s meeting thingy isn’t for a couple of hours anyway- he got tied up in something.”

“Lindsay’s yelling at him,” Gavin explains, and also launches himself at Ryan. “Pile on Ryan!”

Gavin’s hands latch around Ryan’s neck and drag Ryan to the side. The additional weight proves to be too much, and Ryan overbalances and tumbles to the carpet. He lands squarely on top of Gavin and it’s nothing less than what he deserves, really.

“Oof,” Gavin gasps out and Ryan rolls off him.

“You fucking idiot,” Jeremy growls, and puts Gavin in a headlock.

“Michael! Help me!”

“Nope,” Michael hands Ryan a controller. “You absolutely had it coming.”

“No, Jeremy, don’t!-”

Ryan heaves a sigh of relief and settles down on the lounge, turning his controller on. “You ready to get your ass handed to you, Michael?”

“Please, since Gavin can’t distract me I’ll wipe the floor with you. You don’t even know what game we’re playing!”

“Doesn’t matter. Didn’t anyone tell you? I’m the _Vagabond_.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up. You’re not good at _everything_.”

Ryan looks over at Jeremy and Gavin wrestling on the floor. “With you guys around, I don’t have to be.”

“Wow, that was incredibly sappy.”

“I just mean I’m a PC guy! But we’ll find out, won’t we.”


End file.
